


Sleepsong

by hurricanesunny



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Bakunawa!Michael AU, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 10:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11415591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricanesunny/pseuds/hurricanesunny
Summary: It’s a snow day and Michael’s pretty sure Jeremy is magic.





	Sleepsong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reptilianraven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reptilianraven/gifts).



> this is for bird because i love them. best bird. 
> 
> this is based off of their fic, [goodnight moon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11319813)!

It’s a snow day. 

Or, it was a normal, not-snow day until about an hour ago when the world suddenly fell very, very silent. Michael had watched for a little bit, cheeks pressed against the frosty window and clumsy fingers trailing each big, fat flake that fell from above. There was a voice in his head, grumpy and rumbly, telling him he should pull back. _Too cold, too cold._ Michael had ignored it, of course, because he’s seven years old, he can make his own decisions thank you very much, and he loves to watch the snow fall. It’s quiet and soft and Michael always feels like he’s finally in the clouds. Just a little bit closer, he had thought. 

But then he got too cold.

(Sometimes Michael can feel his soul snaking between his lungs when it wakes, curling up in the space between his ribs as it slumbers. Its steady exhale warms his blood and the murmurs from its throat bring him life. It sits on top of something heavy, something old. Nanay says he’s too young to understand, but sometimes he stares at the sky, searching, and Michael thinks he already might.)

So, yeah, it’s a snow day and Michael’s pretty sure Jeremy is magic.

“We need more.” 

Michael looks up, or tries to, really, as he pushes the corner of a blanket out of his eyes. Standing in front of him is Jeremy, face deadly serious and cheeks still pink from the cold. Before he even has a chance to say anything, Jeremy dramatically drops his arms and deposits another load of blankets on top of him. Once again, Michael is momentarily blind.

“Oof.” His head tucks down awkwardly from the weight. Wiggling to free his hands, Michael takes a moment to find a home for this new batch, but he’s pretty much all blanketed out. He’s nestled in a messy, over-sized cocoon on the living room floor, fleece and wool and everything in between covering all but part of his face. Jeremy’s made at least four trips around the house by now, and at this point Michael’s a little surprised he isn’t out of breath. Or blankets.

“I think there might be one or two left in the attic, private.” Jeremy’s dad is leaning in the doorway, arms loosely crossed. He had been pulled into the living room by his son a few minutes earlier to help push the coffee table and recliner out of the way. After seeing Jeremy’s reasoning behind the sudden and “absolutely necessary” furniture arrangement, he had decided to stay for a moment to “supervise.” Not bothering with a response, Jeremy runs past his dad, light-up Sketchers hitting the hardwood floor hard as he grabs the stair railing and sprints upstairs.

“Be careful!” Jeremy’s dad calls after him, shaking his head and smiling to himself. He glances at his watch and then at Michael, presumably to make sure the pile of blankets still showed signs of life. Seemingly satisfied with his observation, Jeremy’s dad disappears into the kitchen. 

Waiting for Jeremy to return (because there isn’t much else he can physically do,) Michael looks out one of the windows. The snow’s still falling outside, heavy and fast, but Michael can’t feel it anymore. A part of him longs to go outside, to run his fingers through the white sky and touch the winter sun, but that part of him quickly resigns and sinks into the blankets instead. His eyelashes flutter shut and he feels a rumble in his chest, low and steady. It’s warm.

(The ancient part of his brain has been asleep for centuries, patiently waiting for the return of sun and sea and tide and moon. But Michael is still young and Michael is still human, and his soul has been neither for so, so long. So it waits, nearly dormant, whispering confessions on a sea breeze from times long past.)

“Feeling better, son?”

Michael blinks once, twice, three times. His brain is still in a warm, fuzzy fog, but he makes out Jeremy’s dad crouching in front of him, arms resting on his knees. His smile is kind.

“Mhm.” Michael’s eyes are half-lidded and his tongue is still peeking out of his mouth. He hadn’t felt bad in the first place, both of them know this, but Jeremy is Jeremy and he would tear the house and world apart to keep Michael from seeking warmer winds.

(Sometimes, when Michael is alone, all alone where no one but the moon and the stars can hear, he lays in the dark and makes his own confessions. Michael’s questions are messy and unsure, littered with _soft hair, blue eyes._ It takes many nights, but something finally stirs between his ribs, yawning, thinking, longing.

_Have you ever felt like this too?_

He feels the pull in his chest, the ache that’s not his own, and it eventually responds. It speaks a different name, but Michael can’t make out the words over the crashing of the waves.)

Jeremy’s dad ruffles the hair peeking out of the blankets before standing up. “I’ll call your mom and make you boys some hot chocolate. How’s that sound?” Michael nods because yes, hot cocoa sounds good right now and the purring in his chest becomes almost child-like. 

Jeremy comes in as his dad leaves, the end of a blanket threatening to trip him. He kneels down in front of Michael and pouts when he sees his face.

“Put it back,” Jeremy mumbles, pushing his hand to Michael’s mouth. Michael lets it happen, he always does, but his soul turns in a circle and huffs all the same. 

The offensive behavior corrected, Jeremy begins to carefully adjust the blankets draped around Michael’s shoulders. He stops every now and then, hand on his chin as he studies his work. Michael shifts ever so slightly. _Too warm, too warm._

Jeremy does a final check over his handiwork once, twice, then takes the extra blankets and gets to the real work. Michael says nothing because he knows Jeremy needs his concentration. It’s an art, really, and Michael never fails to be amazed at the results. Slowly, carefully, Jeremy drapes blanket corners over the recliner and the back of the couch. He tucks another between the coffee table and a stack of books. ...Paleontology, Michael thinks. Jeremy's really into dinosaurs lately. 

Before he knows it, Michael is sitting under a sky of blankets. He watches a pair of legs shuffle out of view and Michael almost asks why he’s leaving and where’s he going and when he’ll be back. But Jeremy is suddenly in his face, motioning him to scoot over. There’s more books in his arms, heavy and slipping through his fingers. Michael silently obliges, wiggling in his cocoon until Jeremy has enough room to crawl in. He presses against Michael’s side, flipping through one of the books in his lap. 

“Here,” Jeremy says, pointing to the opened page in front of them. He looks at Michael. “I’m gonna read you this one.”

Michael leans over, blankets and all, looking at the book. “What is it?”

“Triceratops,” Jeremy states, hissing on the “s” sounds. He’s missing his front two teeth and Michael is almost jealous until he remembers that he’s still the taller one. “They’re pretty scary, but not like the T-Rex. They fought a lot back then, see here? Have you seen a T-Rex’s teeth? They’re so big!” Jeremy is babbling now and Michael doesn’t hear a single word. He stares at the picture.

(Jeremy is afraid of many things. Bees, his mom, morning roll call.

He hides in Michael’s shadow, eclipsed in the summer sun. Michael bares his teeth, nostrils flaring, fists clenched, and any child on the playground that day could tell you they swore they saw steam billowing in the air, the shimmer of thrashing wings. Michael chases them until his throat burns and their sneakers are skidding on hot asphalt, screaming about the boy with the dragon blood. When he returns Michael promises to never leave again, planting sloppy kisses on Jeremy’s scraped knees and Jeremy starts to laugh as tears keep rolling down his dirty cheeks and Michael asks why and Jeremy says it’s because he could never, ever be afraid of him.

He can’t see how anyone ever would.)

“I bet you could fight one!”

Michael looks up. “What?”

“When you grow up. I bet you could beat up a Triceratops.”

“Where am I gonna find a Triceratops?”

“Um, I’m sure there’s, like, dinosaur people. Or, or something.” Jeremy pouts. “Don’t look at me like that! You’re a dragon!”

“Ba-ku-na-waaaa,” Michael whines, leaning his head on Jeremy’s shoulder. Jeremy rests his own head on top of Michael's, flipping the pages back to the beginning. Jeremy isn't exactly wrong or anything, but it took weeks to get him to stop asking Michael if his messy room was the start of a horde. He just wants Jeremy to see him as the right kind of dragon. He wants him to see him for who he is.

(Michael is afraid of one thing, if he’s completely honest, and Michael likes to think he is. He is human, almost human, but Michael is also teeth and claws and a nameless hunger that was never quite quelled. And he loves them, he loves it, he loves him. But sometimes, when the moon is gone and the bangs and the drums are too loud in his head, Michael wonders if one day Jeremy will have to sing him to sleep, leaving him to float under the seafoam forever.

He always feels guilty the morning after, but his soul winds itself around his heart and Michael thinks it understands.) 

Jeremy rolls his eyes and goes back on script, reading the pages in front of him out loud. His finger trails along the words because he’s a good reader, the best in the class, but he gets nervous. Michael notices a stumble every now and then and how Jeremy doesn’t know how to pronounce “excavation” quite right but he doesn’t point it out, and eventually Jeremy’s voice steadies and becomes a quiet, rhythmic lilt. Michael quietly listens along, staring at the pictures but looking at nothing at all. The sway in Jeremy’s voice starts to lull Michael to sleep and he struggles to keep his eyes open. He tries to think of melted marshmallows, of hot cocoa he needs to stay awake for, but the pull is too strong. Michael catches Jeremy glance at him before he finally succumbs to the warmth and the waves, one finger pushing Michael’s tongue back into his mouth before he turns the page.

“Don’t worry. I’ll wake you up later.”

Jeremy keeps reading.

(Sometimes Jeremy will take Michael’s cheeks in his hands, squishing them as his tongue stumbles over second-hand phrases he’s overheard Nanay and Tatay say.

 _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , Jeremy says, and he repeats it all afternoon because he likes how the words roll around in his mouth.

 _I love you_ , Michael says back every time, and he puts his hands over Jeremy’s because he means it.)

It’s a snow day and Michael knows what Jeremy says, and if he’s right that’s okay because humans are good and humans are great, but Michael can't make himself believe it for one second. Jeremy hums under his breath and the world falls asleep. Jeremy looks at Michael like he’s already found what he’s been looking for (and Michael is almost jealous because he’s still searching, searching,) and Jeremy can make perfect blanket forts on the very first try.

If that wasn’t magic, Michael didn’t know what was.

**Author's Note:**

> ☀️ please kudos and/or comment to let me know what you think! ☀️


End file.
